


Interregnum

by Left_Handed_Darkness



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Battle For Lordaeron, Gen, Gore, Gratuitous necromancy, Minor Character Death, One does not attack civilians within earshot of Saviéran Ledrassi, Pre-World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-25 11:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15640029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Darkness/pseuds/Left_Handed_Darkness
Summary: The Alliance is invading Lordaeron, and Saviéran finds himself within the belly of the Undercity as the battle rages. Refusing to bear any banner or fight for any leader, he instead chooses to save what lives he can - but between the growing chaos and facing a force that sees the Forsaken as little more than monsters, how many can be saved?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one's going to be somewhat episodic in format. I'm not sure I want to say "chapters", but given that my guild are going to be doing an event set during the Siege, I've decided that it's better to break it up into smaller segments.

Blood streaks his face and there are dark circles under his eyes, a sign of how long he's been working. More and more injured come and go as the battle rages, making his work feel utterly ceaseless - leaving him to wonder if he will eventually call on the strength of the damned to carry him on.

He doesn't even know what time it is. Being underground for so long does that.

Still, he works. He reattaches limbs, stuffs dead organs back into their owners, and puts deathstalkers back together piece by piece. Sometimes he's not certain that the pieces all match, but at this point everyone is beyond complaining; better functional and fighting than another corpse to be trampled by the Alliance. Resilience is the Forsaken’s main advantage; even in the face of hostile magic, the undead can be reassembled with a degree of efficiency.

The same can't be said of the living.

Saviéran puts down his tools and steps back, his eyes tired yet keenly aware despite it all - held together by adrenaline and perseverance. That gaze is met by the yellow witchfire glow in the eyesockets of a deathstalker, her rotten jaw giving her a near-permanent grin. But her eyes show something else - the same grim determination that he shares.

When he's not tending to the wounded, he's building more troops; abominations, engines of war and death with their empty eyes and immense bulk. He leaves the heads to the others - those empty stares still remind him of nightmares long past, even if he won't admit it.

He'd blinded ghouls once before, not long before realising that decapitation always ensured that they were as they appeared.

Antonidas clambers around on the ceiling, claws sinking into the gaps between the masonry. The beast has little interest in the necromancer’s craft, instead eying the apothecaries and medics as they scurry around the room. It's a hunter's instinct, one wired into that predator’s brain. Every so often Anto stops and sniffs the air in a gesture of idle curiosity.

At first Saviéran pays it no mind, simply marking it up to the sheer amount of raw flesh and blood within the infirmary. Yet as time went on, he couldn't help but notice the raised spines and low growls.

Something was very, very wrong.

Saviéran excuses himself for a short while. It’s not long,  just enough to don his armour. For a moment, he felt silly, but he knew that Antonidas’s bestial senses were far sharper than his ever would be. He glanced around the room, eyes searching for any sign of trouble, then his hand went to the amulet he always wore.

_ Eva, Lucian. _ He called out to the two shades with his mind, channeled through the spectral essence.  _ Something is amiss. Your eyes see more than mine and I can’t really leave my post - please, search the area. Make sure that we’re not about to receive any sudden surprises. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the only way to know what's at stake is to know the people involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel that something that gets overlooked all too easily is that the Forsaken are still *people*. Yeah they're undead, and yeah, there are a couple of arseholes in the mix; but ultimately they're the citizens of Lordaeron, who for the most part just want to get on with their lives. And I feel like that has a great opportunity for a sympathetic PoV that too often goes unexplored.

Eva Sarkhoff could remember the first time she’d visited Undercity. At first she’d been apprehensive about the Forsaken - undeath hadn’t been kind to her or Lucian, and at first it had been hard to accept that so many others had fallen to the plague. But she also remembered the words that she heard upon passing through the gates of Lordaeron for the first time:

 “ _Death has touched all who have called Tirisfal home. Yet despite its appearance and history, the Undercity represents hope for many people.”_

_“Hope?”_

_“Yes, a rare refuge in a hostile world that would see the Forsaken violently expunged from existence. A place where those who have died can find a home where they can not only live, but_ shape _their unlives however they wish. A place where they can choose their own path and begin anew.”_

_There was a pause as Eva gave the matter some thought. She was hesitant at first, clearly anxious about continuing._

_“You make it sound like they went back to living normal lives.”_

_“A lot of them did. Not all - a significant number saw this as a chance to reinvent themselves and create new lives and identifies. The Banshee Queen holds the freedom of her adopted people in the highest esteem; no one is expected to become something else_ or _abandon what they knew, only that they respect each others’ right to autonomy.”_

_Eva smiled, though the concern still lingered. Memories of the Scourge still haunted her. But that, she thought after a moment’s consideration, was the point._

_“You're showing me that I'm not alone, and that if I wanted to leave, there are people who would take me in as one of their own.”_

_Saviéran smiled at her, his expression full of warmth and care._

_“Indeed. I want you and your husband to know that there’s a place for you in this world, that you don’t have to be alone and that you_ aren’t _the monsters the ignorant would brand you as. That you could still live the lives that were stolen from you.”_

It was strange at first, and even now she gave the Apothecarium a wide berth. But as she lingered with the shades of the Lost and walked amongst the myriad stores and homes built into the crypts and sewers of the old city, she couldn’t help but find _humanity_ in the people who lived there. She’d talked to them, listened to their stories; and for every bitter deathstalker or calculating apothecary, she had met shopkeepers and tradesmen, craftspeople proud of their work, and even a priest of the Forgotten Shadow who was willing to offer words of encouragement.

Strange indeed, for one raised to place her faith in the Light, but the priest seemed so welcoming and sincere. A person who wanted to give her a helping hand.

And now she was walking through those subterranean streets once more, and all that unlife was muted. Stores were closed and their owners were gathering their belongings. Friends and families huddled together behind the shields of heavily armoured Deathguards. An air of grim anticipation and fear and _resolution_ hung in the air.

Her observation was interrupted by the voice that echoed through the shadowlands. A request:

_Something is amiss. Your eyes see more than mine and I can’t really leave my post - please, search the area. Make sure that we’re not about to receive any sudden surprises._

Eva frowned, uncertain of what she was meant to be looking for. Still, she picked up her pace, blending into the shadows as nothing but the faintest outline of a person. Immaterial. Invisible. A shade.

Her pace quickened as she made her way through to the city’s heart, spectral eyes keen and searching for whatever threats might reveal themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of a guildmate: "YES THEY ARE A FUNCTIONING SOCIETY IT'S NICE WHEN PEOPLE REMEMBER THAT"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions are asked - but not all are answered. Things are quickly coming to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've admittedly been a bit tardy with this one, but between debugging some connectivity issues and the release of Battle For Azeroth, this got a tad delayed. On the other hand, I did a chunk of the next segment earlier, and it probably won't be long until that's up too.

“I don’t get it. You’re living, but you’re helping us?” The deathstalker’s cracked voice still bore incredulity. It wasn’t the first time someone had questioned Saviéran over it, but he wasn’t shy of such inquiries either.

“That’s correct.” he replied, sliding a dislocated shoulder back into place with a loud _crack_. “I might be alive, but I’ve witnessed more than enough to know that the living aren’t the only ones deserving of existence and kindness. The way I see it, Lordaeron belongs to the dead; to the Forsaken, and to the incorporeal spirits that still walk these lands as they did in life.”

“Not many think that way, a lot of living folk just take one look and pick up the torches and pitchforks. All they see is Scourge, and neither neighbours nor kin.” she looked about to shrug, though decided against it given her injuries. If she'd been hit more directly, the mace might have taken her arm clean off.

“There’s no killer like ignorance or dogmatism.”

“It’s a good thing that you can’t forge it into swords then.”

“You can’t, that’s true; but you can spur the uninformed into a frenzy with it. That’s the worst part - how it turns unwilling conscripts into justified killers.” Saviéran sounded absent minded; occupied with the arrows sticking out of the deathstalker’s back, only part of his attention could go to the conversation. However there was a cold passion in his voice - anger, a tranquil fury focused into pragmatic action.

“You sound like you feel sorry for them.”

“I do. Travelling through human kingdoms, I learnt many things about them; including how well a scapegoat can be used to redirect the anger of the downtrodden. If a lord wants to go to war, he paints his foe as an enemy of the people, and blames all their hardships on this external foe that his people know little of. If he wishes to divide a population that has come to resent him, he favours one group visibly enough for the others to see _them_ as the source of all their ills.” He paused, suturing torn flesh closed - the taloned gauntlets he wore adding more of a challenge, but at this point he wasn’t planning on removing them. “Ignorance is as exploitable as any ore.”

“Heh, for a man dressed in laminar, you sound a lot like a pacifist. That's a strange contrast.” there was amusement in her voice, despite the grunts of discomfort as shrapnel was pulled free and torn flesh stitched back together.

“Perhaps I do, though I wouldn't assume that an unwillingness to march beneath the banners of a nation means a commitment to to nonviolence.”

“So why are you here then? You a conscript or something?”

“Not entirely. I simply dislike the notion that normal people have to die for the agendas and egos of the powerful. Whilst I might not be able to stop kings and queens from going to war, I can at least try to save the people on the ground.” he paused, handing her a potion. “Maybe I won't make much difference, but it'll matter more than standing aside ever would - even the smallest change is better than none.”

  
The deathstalker opened her mouth to reply - then an ear-splitting _screech_ shattered the thin veneer of calm that lay over the Undercity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes there's nothing more terrifying than normal people and the things they tell themselves.

Marcus Grisham was always a quiet sort. From his origins as a lowly thief on the streets of standing, to his career as a scout for SI:7, he'd always had a knack for getting in and out of places that others didn't want him to be in. The catacombs below Lordaeron were not much different in that regard; sure, the blighted canals posed a unique challenge, but it was still very much a matter of slipping into the shadows and evading the city's guards as he progressed further into the depths. At least the abominations seemed too dumb to notice (or even care) about what lurked in the shadows.

Still, he couldn't help but suppress a shudder as he got close to the things. They'd been people once - multiple people, even. Killed, hacked to pieces, and cobbled together in a mockery of the humanoid form. He’d even heard whispers that some of the apothecaries would forego _killing_ their victims, leaving them alive throughout the whole ordeal.

Marcus grimaced in revulsion. Forsaken. Scourge. What did it matter? They were all monsters; cruel mockeries of real people, consumed by sadism and hatred for all life.

Maybe he'd dispose of a few whilst looking for the plans.

He moved further through the tunnels, passing into the outer ring with its plethora of little shelters, stalls, and living quarters built into the old tombs .It was a twisted reflection of the great city of Ironforge, clawed out of a once-sacred burial ground by undead hands.

Marcus’s eyes darted across the plaza, settling on a lone and ragged figure. It was hunched over in what looked like an attempt at a florist’s shop, packing its belongings into a small crate.

A shiver ran down his spine as he paused through a particularly icy draft, creeping closer and closer to the thing. It looked ridiculous; with the flowers adorning its big floppy hat, bony fingers poking through worn out gardening gloves, and the gaudy apron. A knife was drawn as he crept closer, one hand reaching out as he prepared to grasp the creature by its scrawny neck…

* * *

Eva had noticed the SI:7 agent lurking in the shadows. He was clearly aware of the Undercity’s corporeal guardians, but he hadn’t taken into account the fact that there were more than the walking dead amongst the Forsaken’s allies. Over the years, she had come to realise that there was more to Azeroth than met the mortal eye - being caught between the physical realm and that of the Shadowlands gave her a different perspective on the things that she had taken for granted as a human.

Just as this infiltrator was doing now.

She caught a glint of cold steel as he crept towards Martha Alliestar - his intentions as clear as daylight. And Eva knew that there was only one thing that she could do.

The spectre hurried towards him, planting a hand on the back of his shoulder as if to grab him and pull him back. Whilst it didn’t physically stop him, her ghostly touch gave him him pause, whilst she took in a deep breath…

* * *

The pain was indescribable. An ugly _crunch_ came from his shoulders and skull as bones cracked from the impact. Blood trickled from burst eardrums and his nose, and he fell to his knees - yet he could still hear it, that _screaming_. It was like no sound he’d ever heard in his life and it still rang out in his mind; a sound so pained and scared that it barely even sounded human any longer.

And then he realised that the soreness in his throat was from his own screams, drowned out as they were by that primordial howl. Marcus opened his eyes just in time to take in the shock on the florist’s face, and the glint of a trusty shovel as it swung towards his face.

The last thing he was aware of was a sickening crack - then, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But at the same time, normal people can object to the convenient rationalisation.


End file.
